


Duck and Cover

by pilotisms



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Medic!Reader, Mild Gore, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Sniper!Bucky, WWII era, WWII!Bucky, World War II, set during CA:TFA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-06-27 03:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: You're the new medic for the Howling Commandos.You, a head-strong nurse turned medic, and Bucky, the distant sharpshooter, have developed a working relationship that's put to the test throughout the second world war. All is fair in love and war.WWII-centric fic. Compilations of ficlets I'm writing on Tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A glimpse into the norm.
> 
> This series may seem as though it's jumping around, though it will mostly be a linear progression. 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at whirlybirbs to see more Duck and Cover content!

_ “ **SNIPER!** ” _

“Everyone  _get **down!** ”_  


The Howling Commandos are sent into a strafing scramble like ants trying to escape a boot. 

You scuffle along the debris ridden pavement, trying to get a quick start when Bucky’s hand snags your upper arm and he shoves you to the cover of a crumbling stone wall. It’s enough cover for one – you slam into the rubble, breath leaving you as you scramble to grasp at your helmet.

A bullet whizzes by you, striking the road by your foot and you tug yourself in desperately, eyes wild as you begin to realize that in that split second, you’d become separated from the bulk of the group, left pinned under the scope of a Mauser.

“Shit!”  


A bullet  _twings_ off the Nazi insignia on crumbling German Volkswagen to your left, sparking a bright silver as you scramble to press yourself deeper into the pavement below you. 

“She’s pinned!”  


“I can  _fucking_ see that, Steve!”  


You tug at your arms, nails digging into the red and white medic arm-band secured over your uniform. Another bullet whizzes by, striking a few feet off from your head and you scream.

The reaction stirs a new-found fear in your commandos. They’re all wide-eyed, frozen in step until you suck in enough air to bellow out:

“Fucking hell, can someone _ **help me!?** ”_  


Back in motion.

Steve, from his perch behind a shop door, is quick to book it across the main road and skid into the safety of the bombed bakery that Dum Dum and Bucky had fallen into for cover. 

Dum Dum is crouched behind an open door, eyes trained on you as Jim shares a worried look from across the road. “Can anyone see the fucker?!”

Another shot rings out, this one bounding off a rock over your shoulder and you scramble to make yourself smaller. At this point, the medic symbol emblazoned on your helmet is just as good as a target. Your boots scrape against the road, knees tucked to your chest.

And then you see it. The dislodged side-mirror of the Volkswagen – it’s five feet ahead, glimmering in the sun; and as another bullet flies by you and towards where Falsworth had poked his head out, you catch the glint of a muzzle flash.

“Straight down the strip! Church! Third floor! One of the left windows!” you bellow out, voice hoarse as you spot Bucky moving to scramble, “I caught it in the mirror!”  


“That’s my girl!” it’s an affectionate cheer from Bucky as he slides into position beside Jim farther up the road sniper slung over his shoulder as he pops up onto his knees, “You’re going to be fine, doll! Just keep your head down!”  


His voice is hoarse with worry and you nod, helmet shaking as you press yourself into the wall. 

Bucky’s gaze is wild, jumping from his squad back to you. “Anyone wanna play chicken? I need a distraction!”

“Not really,” you holler, “I’m a little busy at the moment!”

“Do  _ **not** move!” _Bucky’s voice cuts through the air, heavy with an emotion you’ve never heard him speak with and it sparks something scary in your gut, “You stay  _right there,_ doll!”  


Another shot flies by your foot and the wall crumbles a bit on impact, dusting you with dirt and debris.   


“That’s six! He’s reloading!”  


Bucky curses, ducking reflexively at the  _thwang_ of the impact – but your curled up figure has him stomaching the heavy dread of sticking his head out from cover; and sure enough, down the scope, Bucky spots the single Kraut holed in the church steeple. He’s grappling with ammo, and Bucky’s fingers shake.

He’s always had feelings for you – ever since you’d been assigned to the commandos on recommendation from Peggy months ago; you were a nurse turned medic, sick of seeing bodies come into the field hospitals.

(You’d disobeyed Phillips direct orders and gone and combed through the Kraut infested woods by Marigny – and you and three other nurses hauled seven men back to camp, dodging sniper fire and kraut artillery. 

It had earned you some shiny medal and a letter from the President.

You thought it was a whole lot of bullshit and had told Steve you wished they had sent morphine instead of a fucking medal. 

_ What am I supposed to do with it? I’ve dug shrapnel outta guys that are prettier than this hunk of metal.) _

You and him had quickly become a working pair – and while Bucky  _knew_ he should think nothing of it, he  _did_  and it left him in a panic in moments like these.

“I see him!”  


“Come on, Buck,” it’s Dum Dum, “We need our medic alive.”  


“I would like her to stay alive, yeah!” Bucky breathes, lips tugged into a worried chew as he stiffens his shoulders.

There’s a beat of a moment, and exhale, a blink, and then he pulls the trigger.

The window of the church shatters, but the figure of the sniper moves and Bucky  _knows_ he missed. 

“Did you –”  


“ _ **Shit!** ”_  


A bullet peels by Bucky’s head and he curses at the volley. He felt the air on that one, and Jim’s face is pulled into a terrified grimace. The man presses his fingers along his brow and shoulders, reciting a quick prayer as Bucky’s annoyance grows.

You’re balled up tight, still, eyes wide in fear.

“Come on, Buck,” you shout, “You got ‘im!”

“Fuck this guy to  _fucking_ hell.”

Bucky’s fast, propping himself back up to volley right back – and this time, the hit is hard and fast and deep and the slump of the man’s shoulders and spray along the shattered window tells him he made the shot. 

Silence falls along the street as Bucky watches – counting the beats of a breath. Still no movement. He’s down. And so, he tosses his sniper over his shoulder and stands, stretching his legs.

“We’re good.”  


“Nice shooting, Buck.”  


You melt into the pavement, hand clutching your heart and your helmet as you kick your legs up and roll onto your back. Relief is instantaneous; and though this certainly wasn’t your  _first_ moment of near-death in this war, you have to admit it was  _enough._

Bucky toddles over to you, boot nudging your own. His hands are on his hips, smile sly and eyes soft. 

“You alright, kid?”  


“Yeah,” you swallow, “I’m good. Just… leave me here for a bit. I gotta find my soul. I think it left my body on the second shot.”

Bucky offers a hand. “I ain’t leavin’ you anywhere. Now, get up, we got places to be, people to rendezvous with.”

You wish maybe you could be like him – heart-of-gold and never stopping.

He squeezes your hand and it reminds you of the balance you’d achieved with the sergeant. You’d throw yourself into the middle of it for a downed man and he’s cover you. 

A fair, working relationship.

You stand on shaky knees and move to gather the medical pack you’d lost in the fray – it settles over your shoulders and you feel a bit safer again beside Bucky as the Howling Commandos fall in step again and comb through the abandoned French town. 

“Thanks for that,” you say after a few miles of walking and a comfortable silence.  


Bucky is picking through the back of a fast track for ammo when you say it, and his fingers still along the wooden crate – he blinks over his shoulder at you, emotions guarded.

“S’all in a days work, doll,” he chirps, tossing a box or two into his rucksack, “Without you, we got no medic.”  


He comes up with a handful of bandages and tosses them to you. You catch them with a reserved amount of grace, muscles taught with an odd feeling of rejection. 

_ Without you, we got no medic.  _

You stammer, tripping over your words as you follow him through the ruins of the town. “Yeah, but, y’risked your neck for me, Buck.”

“Like I said,” he chirps, “S’nothin’, doll.”  


“Right.”  


The silence that follows  _isn’t_ comfortable, and it sticks around as you fiddle with the pack of bandages and toddle behind the group. Bucky is in the midst of kicking himself – but maybe this was for the best; distancing the co-dependence knotting itself around his heart was only smart. 

You were a medic. 

Expendable.

But, no. Bucky can’t keep his  _fucking_ mouth shut.

“Ya alright?” he says, careful and tentative, “After all that, I mean. It can be kinda fucking rough on y’brain.”  


You blink, eyes jumping up to him as he starts beside you. His step falls in line with yours. 

“Oh. Yeah. M’fine.”  


“Good.”  


Bucky exhales. He pulls his brows together, rubbing his face. You watch him struggle to streamline the words into a sentence and tilt your head.

“Are  _you_ alright?”  


“Yeah – I mean. I was kinda an asshole early. Just… you ain’t just our medic. I… You’re part of the Commandos and we all care about you. So…”  


Your lips part. The confessions settles happily in your chest. 

“So don’t go gettin’ yourself killed, alright? I can’t loose  _my_ medic.”

Bucky smiles, all crooked and slow and you nod and promise.

“Never.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look back to the first meeting between you, Bucky and the Commandos.

“She’s good, Steve – really good. I can’t say enough about her.”  


Peggy matches his stride, fingers clutching the docket on the woman in question. Her lips, red and smirking, move quickly as she speaks outside of tent of C.P. and she hands the manila folder off with graceful ease. Her boots sink into the mud.

“And what am I supposed to do with this?” Steve asks, brows raised. He thumbs through the pages, eyes your record and your enlistment photo. The rain makes the pages curl.

You’re pretty.

Bucky’s type.  


Peggy smiles, bright and dizzying and it makes Steve’s heart sing. 

“Think about it. The Commandos need a medic.”

And they did. They  _really_ did.

The growing reliance on field hospitals was getting a little pitiful, actually, and Steve’s growing concern about his men was getting out of hand – it was well warranted, though. After all, Falsworth had managed to duck through sniper fire only last week and come out of it with only a shred of shrapnel lodged in his left ass-cheek. 

It had made for laughs, but the Howling Commandos needed someone to keep them together; stitches and morphine and bandages included.

And  _you._

Phillips was impressed, Peggy was impressed – hell, you’d made this camp your own a week in; going off book and ducking into the forest surrounding Marigny to haul wounded men back in a crumbling jeep, dodging sniper fire and German artillery in the meanwhile. The stunt had gotten you a stamp of approval, earned you an accommodation and a shiny medal and a letter from the president. 

And a reference for the Howling Commandos.

Steve finds Peggy later that week – Operation Cobra was slowing rolling, but every inch was proving worth it, and if the boys could barrel past the Germans this fast, maybe there was hope they’d be home for Christmas.

But, after the company is looking worse for wear.

Peggy seems proud he puts in word for this new medic’s reassignment, promising she’ll be worth it.

You get your re-assignment on a Friday, and that night you’re shipped back from the front-lines to the cozy position within Marigny. You ride back with a quiet Corporal named Turner who says nothing, only waves you off with a salute after dropping you in the stirring Ally-occupied town. 

The villas are crumbling from the bombardments and warfare that’s swept through this area as part of Operation Cobra, but part of you is thankful to be back – it’s quieter here. No mortar fire or screaming or shots in the night.

Just soldiers trying to get by.

Peggy nearly bursts at the seams when she sees you, sweeping you into a mutually respected salute and a soft squeeze of the arm. 

“Come on,” she says, “Let’s get you settled with your new company.”  


The thrown-together tent that the Commandos called home was empty, save for some tossed sheets over cots and bags and stray ammo – and you snag a cot by the end of the row that’s empty. Your bag doesn’t have much in it – supplies and a journal and a handkerchief for your hair – so you drop it and your helmet before following Peggy.

She’s slow walking as she talks.

“The men are in the pub, I believe,” she says, “Celebrating, no doubt.”  


“Oh,” you breathe, “Pub?”  


“A gutted out bank turned watering hole. The 107th like to think themselves the hosting types.”  


You laugh, soft and controlled, fingers knitted into your pockets as she swings a hand out and catches the door open. 

You have to admit you feel a bit small standing next to Agent Carter.

She’s gorgeous, really, swathed in victory curls and a red lipstick and here you are, straight off the front-lines looking like hell – your hair is bundled under head scarf, white like the medical patch burning across your shoulder. It’s not so white anymore, though. 

You toddle, shifting your weight for boot to boot – eyes sweeping across the room. 

The not-really-a-pub grows quiet at the entrance of Peggy; no doubt a call to her rank, and she dismisses to the respective silence with a wave. 

It’s warmer in here, and the winter air doesn’t bite so hard through your uniform. The lull of a piano in the back calls to the two of you.

She weaves through the crowd, through the raucous cheers and drinking and straight to the bank of the room – there, a gathering has started over a game of burn and turn. A group toddles around the piano, singing some off-tune hymn about ribbons and being far from home. You recognize Steve Roger’s nearly immediately; he’s draped over the back of the piano, chattering with the dark hair man in the blue jacket tittering on the keys.

Steve’s busy looking at Peggy – openly admiring, actually – to notice you.

The crowd erupts into laughter and whistles at the realization of Steve’s affections and Peggy’s spontaneous appearance in the wolf’s den. The Howling Commando’s are elated to see her. She has to wave them off to calm them down. 

It’s… sweet.

“Gentlemen.”  


Peggy gestures to you with a well-manicured hand and you blink, clearing your throat before stating your name and rank fast – smile cautious and slow.

“Your new medic, boys.”  


A beat of silence.

“No shit.”  


It’s the man by the piano with the dark hair and dark eyes that speaks first – he pushes himself upwards from the bench, leaning against the grand piano with a glint of interest in his eyes. 

He shares a look with Steve. It’s guarded. They’re both thinking the same thing.

Bucky Barnes has never  _seen_ a broad in the field before.

He’s heard rumors about nurses getting shipped in after D-Day, there to clean up the mess, but…  _you?_ You seemed… very different from  _Peggy_ in all respects. 

Pretty, though – not very delicate looking but bright-eyed and strong. 

Dum Dum Dugan is falling over himself, tripping really, to stand and shake your hand and smile. He’s laughing, a bit drunk and face twisted into a genuine grin. It’s funny, and Bucky spies Jim trying to muscle a laugh down.

“God, you look exactly like my girl back home, you know,” he says, “Jenny is her name. Sweet girl. Where you from?”  


“New York, sir.”  


“No shit!” Dum Dum mimics Bucky, waving to the duo, “Those boys are Brooklyn through and through, you know.”  


You blink at Captain America, that poster boy, and the tall man by the piano – when you cock your head and flash a grin, they cross their arms. “Queens.”

Steve likes you. Already. Bucky can tell.

“You’re… You’re that nurse that saved those men a couple of weeks ago, aren’t you?”  


It’s Pinky that speaks next, froth from his beer littering his upper lip. 

You seem to stiffen at the question, shrugging. Blinking at Peggy, she gives a nod of approval – as if it was  _classified,_ half the town had heard you barking out orders in the field hospital and seen you tear out with that stolen jeep like a bat-out-of-hell. Everyone knew about it.

Not everyone approved.

Not every  _man_ approved.

“I got a shiny medal from it if you wanna see,” you chirp, “I asked for a decent pair of skivvies but the President said no.”  


A beat of silence.

And then a roar of laughter that buckles your own sense of walls – you laugh a bit as Dum Dum slaps the table and muscles Falsworth around.

“You oughta let me take you out some time,” says Jim, “Pretty girl with a medal? Doesn’t get any better than that.”  


“That’s a girl worth fightin’ for, huh, Buck?”  


“S’pose so,” Bucky, the one by the piano, says slowly, “So long she don’t get in the way. No room for stunts here.”  


Steve nudges his friend, quelling the swell of skepticism. 

“Ignore him,” Falsworth says, adjusting his beret and standing, “Our lovely James is just in a mood because he was hoping the new medic would be someone he could  _boss around_ – and with a repertoire like yours, miss, I doubt you’d allow something like that.”  


“Maybe if he asks nicely.”  


“Not likely.”  


You smirk and his lips quirk enough.

“Play the piano?” you ask, head tilting.  


Bucky stiffens, stepping away from the keys. “If you buy a ticket.”

“Shame,” you mutter, “Don’t have any cash – god know the army doesn’t pay me enough anyways.”  


His laugh is ducked to his chest as he shifts from foot to foot, and Steve couldn’t be happier, really – it shows, and Peggy shares the same sentiment. 

And so the Commandos got their medic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: "Take what you get and live with it."  
> Some late-night bonding as you buckle down in Nazi occupied France.

The moon is bright overhead, over-saturated with the haunts of night-time in occupied France. 

In the distance, Luftwaffe beat their engines through the cloudless sky, kings of their domain. Every hour or so, there’s a skirmish. The RAF and American boys spread their wings and flit around in the sky like shooting stars, sometimes downing the enemy, sometimes loosing a brother. 

It’s cold – you can see your breath from your spot in the tattered and burnt recliner you’d settled into for the night. The Howling Commandos are scattered around you in the third story of the bombed out villa; overhead, there’s no ceiling. 

Just open sky and war-birds.

You’re in the thick of it – knee deep in Rouan, France flanked by German encampments in the near deserted town. Months into Operation Cobra, the need for a break-through was dire; and so, the mission was recon based.

Three days in, with little sleep and a lot of running, you were all losing steam.

You curl inward, eyes heavy with sleep and exhaustion and everything in-between; the movement catches Bucky’s attention.

Smoke swirls around his head like a halo.

“Can’t sleep?”  


He’s on guard, awake and nursing a cigarette and cold instant coffee from a dented canteen Dugan had muscled him during debrief. Bucky is pressed against the tacky wallpapered half-walls, legs stretched outwards and thinking about how his Ma would have liked a house like this. It had good bones. Even after surviving the initial round of bombing, it stood on good legs – and though the floors were buckled with burns and the roof was plunged into nothingness overhead, it had charm. 

You swallow, voice soft. “Call me paranoid.”

Suddenly, cold and crisp and fast, a hard shot rings out below the Commandos on the street – you jump in your chair, heart hammering in a reflexive type of fear as Bucky muscles himself to his feet. His footfalls are quiet as he moves around the glass on the floor, bolt-action M1 Garand slung over his chest at the ready.

Falsworth rolls over by your feet, eyes bleary. He whispers, voice tight with hidden panic. “Fuck was that?”

“Not sure,” you say, voice soft, “Buck is checkin’.”  


The men all seem to stir at the sound – close and  _real_ – and soon Steve has hauled himself into sitting position beside Sawyer. The two share a canteen and you peer over your shoulder at Bucky; he’s peeking out the frame of what  _was_ a window. He’s quiet.

His cigarette is flicked to the floor, crushed.

“Can’t see anyone.”  


“Maybe a misfire,” Pinky says, rubbing his face, “Bastards.”  


The group settles into a quiet lull, eyes drawn at half-mast and ears tuned into the crumbling sounds around them; now, small pounds of rumble have the lot of them blinking around. And then, after a while of silence, Dugan speaks.

“You ever been hunting, Buck?”  


The sniper is posed by the window still, tired eyes drawn up and down the street as he tugs his navy pea-coat tighter around his frame. He kicks his boots out, sliding down the wall. In the light of the moon, he looks softer than usual. His lashes catch the light, and you wonder for the hundredth time if he’s got a girl back home.

He must.

“No,” he says after a while, “Never been.”  


“Seriously?”  


“Was busy takin’ care of my Ma and my sisters,” his voice is fond, “And when I wasn’t doing that, I was boxing. Training to win so I could put food on the table. Or taking care of Stevie.”  


He held himself like a boxer. He was light on his feet, quick – you’d seen him beat on the other companies in good natured pub fights. Blowing off steam meant throwing punches and you’d gladly step aside while Buck broke noses. Steve wasn’t far off, and Dugan could never _not_ join in on the merriment.

“I could take care of myself, thanks,” Steve chirps quietly, “Don’t even try to swing that with me.”

The two were as close as brothers, though Steve was fair and sweet and Bucky dark and cutting. Opposites of each other in a lot of respects, though mirrored one another in spirit and charm and kindness. You’d over-heard chatter about Steve’s mom, about Bucky’s sisters in the past as subjects to pass the time – though, it was certainly not your place then. You were new. Still proving yourself.

Now, though, you dig. The sniper’s normally reserved self is lessened maybe thanks to lack of sleep, though you’re no different.

“Sisters?” you ask, tentative and slow, “How many?”  


“Two.”  


Your face splits into a sleepy grin as you close your eyes and burrow deeper into your chair. Buck fights a satisfied smile, fiddling with the scope of his sniper rifle. 

The air shifts into something of a growing bond; because suddenly the men are trained on their newest member, and you don’t  _mind_ the poking and prodding and digging about your life.

“What about you, kid?” it’s Dugan, voice gentle with a fatherly charm, “We don’t know much about our faithful medic.”  


“I got a sister,” you finally say, “She’s young though, only ten. Still didn’t stop her from stealing my make-up back home. An’ my Mum – well, I haven’t heard from her in a few months.”

Dugan frowns. “Haven’t gotten any letters?”

“She wasn’t too happy with me joining the Nurses Corp. Don’t matter much. Couldn’t just sit around and sell war-bonds and look pretty, anyways.”

Bucky couldn’t see it – he couldn’t see you settling down. Not dolled up with victory curls in your hair and lipstick across your smile. You looked better with dirt along your cheeks, not rogue and he  _knew_ it without even seeing it. 

He stirs, stretching his legs and pressing fingers through his hair. He watches you, watches your chest ride and fall and your helmet slip down your forehead.

“And your father?” Steve asks with a gentle curiosity, “Heard from him?”  


Your voice is heavy with sleep.

“My Pa came back from the war shell-shocked all those years ago, never been the same – but he’s proud of me. He’s my hero, you know.”  


“Army?”  


“Mhm.”  


“You know, my ma used to say you  _take what you get and you live with it_ ,” Bucky says after a while. His eyes are still set along the moonlight street, “S’a good motto, but you clearly didn’t settle, kid.”  


“With being a nurse, you mean?”  


“Yeah.”  


“Well, a nurse in a field hospital didn’t save my father’s life. It was three field medics hunkered down in the trenches – young kids. No older than me. What’s stopping me from doing that, huh? A skirt? Times are changing.”  


Buck blinks at you, a bit enamored with the response. It seems so… second nature. His ma would like you. So would Becca. “Point taken.”  


“There’s a saying, you know –  _a mother in power would never send her sons to war_ ,” you dip your head back and blink at the stars, “I wonder how many lives those nurses could have saved if they hadn’t been confined to their field hospitals.”  


There’s a hum along the men, a recognition of trench warfare and mustard gas and no man’s land and the  _horror_ – and then silence. It’s comfortable, warm, and within minutes the rest of the men have slipped back asleep, shot in the dark forgotten. 

Bucky is awake, though, pressing himself upwards and moving to collapse at the foot of your chair. He swigs his canteen and you shift in your chair, boots pulled inwards and knees to your chest. 

The proximity is welcomed, and you can’t help but feel a bit safer. Like a cub napping beneath the lion. He settles in, wriggling a bit before he props his knees up and rifle in his lap. 

“Get some sleep,” he whispers, “I’m on watch.”  


You move, touching his shoulder with cold fingers. Bucky blinks at the contact, hand moving to rub your own. Your grip slips loose, and you tuck yourself back into your coat. The moment burns and his touch is a little bit like holding fire. It bites, enough to remind you of the danger of love and war. Nothing is fair. Nothing lasts.

You adjust your helmet. “You sure?”

“Won’t let anything happen to you, doll.”  


You trust him. His head leans against your hip, hair a bit wild from his helmet. You nod, even though he can’t see it, and relish in the small contact. 

“Thanks, Buck,” you murmur.  


“Always.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky celebrates his birthday on the front. You can't bake. Junior is just trying to sleep.

“Happy Birthday, dear Bucky-o, happy birthday to  _youuuuuu_ –”

It’s pitiful, really – but Dum Dum insists that a celebration is a must for Bucky’s birthday, even if that means somehow breaking rations and muscling a few men around to make something special. 

Somehow – Bucky’s not  _really_ sure how – a cake is made.

(It was by your grace. You’d tossed a few smiles in the way of a marine officer by the names of Wilkinson – he was doe-eyed and young and when you’d said it was one of the nurses birthdays, he’d bent at the knee and handed over his sugar and flour with a bashful grin. Eggs were easy, you’d snagged those from a farmhouse up the road for a pack of cigarettes. And so, in a sad little ration tin, you made a little cake that probably tasted like  _shit._ The crwoning candles weren’t really even candles – they were upturned lucky strikes, smoking from atop the cake.)

Once the singing has ended, Bucky finally speaks.

“You assholes didn’t have t’ do this.”  


You grin, prodding the small campfire you’d all settled around. The boys are boisterous, shoving Bucky with good-natured grins plastered on their faces. Steve hooks an arm around his other half’s shoulder, poking his chest. 

“Anything for the birthday boy.”  


You drag your cigarette, crossing your legs and leaning back into the rubble of the French farmhouse you’d camped in for the evening. The rest of the battalion and CP was down the road – men were billeted up and down the stretch in broken shambles of shelled homes. 

It was a clear night.   


Bucky’s eyes fleet across the fire, watching the orange glow dip along the slopes of your face – you look pretty like this, puffing your cigarette and watching the stars. He thinks maybe if this wasn’t a war and you weren’t mucked with blood and dirt, you’d pass for a crooning starlet. He’s surprised the USO hasn’t swept you up. You’re beautiful and you catch him staring.

He swallows.

“Who made the cake?” he asks, blinking up at Pinky and Falsworth, “None of you chumps can bake.”  


“Well,” Jim chirps, “Lucky f’ you, our lovely medic is more than _just_ a lifesaver, she’s also an esteemed  _chef_.”  


“Hold that thought,” you say, raising a finger and balancing your cigarette in the corner of your mouth, “He hasn’t tasted that yet and – listen, I’m no homemaker.”  


“Come on,” Steve says, “Blow out the  _candles_ and eat.”  


Bucky laughs and plucks a cigarette from the cake, smile dimpling the corners of his cheeks and it cements an equal look on your own face. Seeing the usual stoic sniper so jovial is infectious. 

He digs a spoon from his pack, thumbing through an MRE and raising it as if he was King Arthur brandishing Excalibur. The spoon wavers, and he moves to blow out the lucky-strikes-turned-candles, only before pausing at the sound of your voice.

“Gotta make a wish first, Buck.”  


Dark eyes flick upwards, landing on your smile. He laughs.

“Nearly forgot.”  


The three ‘candles’ fly out with a swirl of smoke, flames extinguished with one small breath. The Commandos jeer, dirty fingers snagging the stray smokes before settling into their spots around the fire. 

Bucky is quick to dig a heaping scoop of cake out and plop it into his mouth.

There is no baking in the world like that of Sarah Rogers – really, in all his years Bucky has never have anything comparable. It’s a wonder Stevie wasn’t bigger than a stick, as his mother had a gift for cakes and pies and pastries and dinners like you couldn’t believe. 

But, right now, in this crumbling French home a mile out from the front of the European front?

This is  _better_ – no,  _the best._

The sound he makes is sinful and you have to hide the evident squirm it pulls out of you. His shoulders fall, guard slipping as he chews – it rouses a couple of laughs from the men and you have to smother a smile. 

“ _Christ,”_ he moans, “This – This is  _good._  Really good.”  


You raise your hands as praise from the men rains in, mockingly bowing a bit from your spot on the ground. “Thank you, thank you, what can I say? France  _is_ known for its cuisine…”

Buck chuckles, mouth full. And then he leans, passing the tin mug around.

“Come on,” he musters, “Everyone get a slice.”  


“Oh gee, Barnes, how  _generous –”_  


_“_ God, I love when you’re in a good mood.”  


You take your own spoonful, happy and content and warm and dry for the first time in days, and it’s not long before the rest of the commandos have dosed off. You muscle the fire one more time, eyes catching Bucky – he’s still awake, eyes upturned on you. You blink, ignoring the stirring feeling the look churns in your gut.

He stands, then, stepping over Gabe beside you and settling down with a bit of leftover cake. 

His shoulder brushes yours and your knees knock like schoolkids locked in the gooey tempo of adoration. It feels good, and when he pulls the spoon from his lips and offers the tin, you can’t help but smile.

“Thanks.”

“Thanks for makin’ it.”

You take a spoonful, happy to be eating and happy to be beside him. “Wouldn’t be a birthday without cake.”

Bucky nudges you, stealing the spoon and worming a crumb from the tin in your hands. He shrugs, waving his hands a bit in front of the fire. His voice is soft, as if he doesn’t want to wake the men – but there’s a comforting level of softness to his words. You can’t help but feel special under his gaze.

“Birthdays were never big in m’ house,” he murmurs, “But in  _Steve’s_ house…”  


You crack a grin, spotting the resident Captain America snoring softly against a stack of ammo crates. 

“His ma sounds like a legend,” you smile, “You both talk about her a lot.”  


“She makes a  _mean_ cake,” Bucky chews and swallows, pointing with his spoon, “But  _this_? This is good.”  


“Probably because we haven’t eaten any  _real_ grub in weeks.”  


“Oh, most definitely.”  


You both laugh, bodies pressed close as you watch the fire dance and kiss the night air – you duck your smile into your arm, tugging your knees close and Bucky drops the empty ration tin by your feet. 

“I gotta say,” he rumbles, “Not the worst Birthday in the books.”  


“Oh?”  


“Mm,” Buck hums, eyes darting across your cheeks and lashes and heavy pout, “Not every year I get to spend the day in Europe, hunkered down in the French countryside with a beautiful girl.”  


Your laugh is crystalline and genuine and Bucky swears the sound could stop the whole war – your nose scrunches and your eyes flutter shut at the line. It’s enough to get you to lean into him for a second, nudging him out of good-humor.

“That was a good line.”  


“Thanks,” he smirks, “Been thinkin’ on it.”  


“Will you two stop flirtin’ and  _shut up_?” it’s Junior, rolling over from his spot across the fire to shoot you both a tired look, “Christ, some of us are tryna sleep.”  


“Sorry, Junior,” you whisper, smothering a laugh, “Sorry.”  


“Sorry  _my ass_.”  


You shoot Bucky a look – he matches it with an amused one, moving to stand in surrender. He reaches, giving your hand a heavy squeeze before he saunters off to his designated spot by Steve; the touch leaves a burning trail behind, and you wish you didn’t dwell so much on it.

“Happy Birthday, Buck,” you whisper, shrugging yourself under your blanket.  


“Thanks, beautiful.”

“… Seriously?”  


“Sorry, Junior.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for gore & death & war-related trauma.
> 
> Battle of the Bulge. You lose a man during a shelling. Two more later. You can't get the blood of your hands. You fall apart. Bucky pieces you back together.

Bastogne is hell on Earth.  


The Krauts have commandeered every supply drop over the thick forest thanks to a heavy blanket of fog and snow, leaving you and the Commandos and the rest of the rag-tag companies with no food and no winter gear.

And no smokes.

If it wasn’t for the shelling, the lack of smokes would be the worst part.

(Lucky Strikes were, after all, warmth  _and_ a meal if you knew how to make one last.)

But, every night, the bombardments began and the hundred year old trees of the Ardennes – massive pine trees that have seen the rise and fall of kingdoms all across this land – explode into sharpnel. The shellings have already claimed handfuls of lives.

Just a day ago, two men from Easy Company lost a leg each.

Bucky’s fingers shake, the product of the hunger for nicotine and the bite of the cold, as he ducks himself deeper into his coat. Steve had headed up to CP to hopefully gather some coffee, leaving the sniper beneath the heavy wool blanket they’d covered their hole with. Dum Dum was fast asleep beside him,  _somehow_ snoring through the winter chill.

A couple of holes over, Bucky can hear the rattle of Gabe’s cough – the multilinguist wasn’t faring well, having fought through chills and sweats the first week of fighting on the line. He’d since been pulled, and following a rather heavy hack, Bucky can hear you moving from hole to hole.

“You alright, Gabe?”

You’d swept yourself into a sort of mother figure, reminding the men to keep themselves dry, to change socks, to get something warm to eat before recon. It’s apparent, however, that you are tired – every night, with each shelling, you’re out of your foxhole and darting to the nearest shout of ‘medic’. You hadn’t slept; dozes between coffee calls didn’t count.

The blanket above his head moves, and you’re there, rubbing bare fingers together as your breath swirls around you through the falling snow. There’s an unlit cigarette between your lips.

“Hey,” you’re voice is soft as you slip over the edge of the foxhole, settling into the ground beside Bucky, “How you holding up?”

“Hungry, cold,” he grumbles, “Don’t have any smokes left, lost my other pair of socks in the last shelling… The list goes on.”

Without a word, you pluck your cigarette from your lips and shove it his way before rifling through your pack. “Here. Might have a pair in here.”

Buck watches wordlessly, fingers taking the Lucky Strike from yours as he scratches the stubble along his chin. He had expected that. You shift, shrugging your satchel off your shoulders. Inside, Bucky spots a dangerously low supply of morphine and only a handful of bandages, but no socks.

You deflate a bit, unable to help him. Bucky nudges you.

“Hey, doll, no worries.”

“I’ll try and see if I can get a pair on the next run into town –”

Suddenly, your name is called, prompting you to poke your head out the foxhole.

It’s a medic from Easy company – a handsome, young man named Eugene with a drawl thick like the humidity of Louisiana. His words are the type to stick to your ribs, make you feel warm and full. Bucky can feel a momentary wave of jealousy color him green as he watches you both interact with sweet smiles. You seem to glow at the familiar face.

“Hey ‘Gene.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Listen,” he says, kneeling down and moving to his pack, “You got any extra morphine? I only got one syrette, I been asking all around –”

“Christ,” you whisper, eyes jumping to your own supplies, “Me too, I only got one. I was gunna come and hunt you down. I got bandages though, and sulfa out my ears.”

“Can I spot a pack of bandages?”

“‘Course,” you breathe, handing him a roll, “You makin’ any runs into Bastogne tonight?”

“Maybe,” he says patting your shoulder. His eyes drift to Bucky, dark gaze a bit curious, “I’ll come and grab you before I go.”

“Appreciate, ‘Gene. Be careful,” you notice his gaze and  nearly jump, “Oh, Gene? You wouldn’t happen to have an extra pair of socks, would you?”

Bucky perks up a bit.

“Naw,” he laughs a bit, “Those are in high demand. You lose a pair?”

“Something like that.”

You duck back under the blanket, aware of how the setting sun had plunged the temperature, body pressed to Bucky’s side as you draw a long sigh. Bucky’s teeth are chattering, arms moving to try and warm himself up. He looks rightfully miserable with the unlit cigarette perched between his lips, eyes pulled shut in a grimace.

Him and Steve had been posted on the Western end of the line for three nights straight, leaving the sniper worn from cold and particularly cranky from it all – it wasn’t out of character for him, but in recent days the Romanian wanted nothing but sleep. Shellings made that impossible and no one but Steve and Dum Dum were brave enough to wander into the lion’s den.

Save for you.

“I’ll find you a pair, Buck,” you promise as you try and get comfortable, “Gotta keep those feet dry.”

He cracks an eye open, about to speak when Steve slips into the foxhole brandishing a hot helmet full of coffee. He looks chipper, maybe because he’d spent the last half an hour chatting up Peggy, but Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just takes the coffee, sipping it and watching your face split into one of those war-ending smiles.

It’s a shame the USO didn’t get you before the Nurses Corp did. You would have made a perfect starlet. Bucky drowns in the sight of your smile, cold ignored and chattering stopped – he wonders if you know how lucky that smile makes him feel. In the thick of this war, that’s one thing he thinks he can’t live without. Reminds him of home.

Suddenly, Steve shoves him and Bucky realizes he’s been staring with a slack jaw.

“I was just sayin’,” Steve repeats, “Word has it this fog’s gunna clear up in the next day.”

“They’ve been sayin’ that for weeks, Steve.”

“Yeah, well,” he shares a look with you, smile slow, “Peggy said it this time, not Colonel Sink.”

Bucky laughs, hoarse and cynical and it draws a laugh out of you – the sound is melodic and light. “Let’s hope Peggy’s as good at weather forecasts as she is everything else.”

“I trust her.”

“No,” Bucky smirks, “You  _love_ her, those are different.”

“Are they?” you grin, tilting your head. “I would trust the man I love.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow ever so slightly – did you have someone back home?

“‘Course they ain’t different,” it’s Dum Dum this time – he stirs from his slumber, knocking his helmet back and rubbing his face, “What time is it?”

“Around 9,” Steve says, sobering up, “Going to be a loud night.”  


* * *

And it is.

It doesn’t start until late – you’re tucked away in that foxhole finally achieving some semblance of sleep when it begins.

The sky opens up with a roar, and the ever-nearing whistle of a mortar stills everyone awake in your foxhole. Bucky’s eyes are wild with a sluggish type of fear, hand moving to grab hold of his helmet in a flash. Steve presses himself farther into the ground, boots scuffing the frozen dirt. Dum Dum simply waits.

The whistle grows louder, and louder.

And then explodes on impact, striking fifty feet out from the line.

Your heart is kicked into fight or flight as the shelling begins, but you’re trapped like a bird in a cage. Thrums of artillery pound through the air – the sound is deafening and swallows you whole, shaking your frostbitten bones as you scramble to press yourself into that foxhole and pray. Praying never works. But, those words sewing your slipping faith remind you of home.

Your foxhole is silent. Steve and Dum Dum and Bucky are balled up tight trying to push out that artillery fire from their minds.

Snow and dirt rains over you like a halo and the trees of the Ardennes explode.

Pine trees bend at the knee to the German bombardment, splintering as they pepper the company and snow around them. Branches snap and the ground shakes on impact. It’s hard to tell, when your eyes are screwed shut and you’re whispering a prayer, if it’s a tree or a shell –

There’s a beat of a breath.

An impact.

And then:

_** “MEDIC!” ** _

You jump, feet scrambling to push yourself upwards at the call. The men in the foxhole stare, gazes wide with wonder as you push your fear aside and pull a stoic face, tightening the strap of your helmet with shaking hands as you hop out of the hole and into the shocking flurry being laid out in front of you.

Bucky is silent, breath leaving him in pure horror as you disappear into the hellscape. He wants to claw after you, to drag you back in that hole and make you promise you won’t get hurt. But, you’re gone. Disappeared into the winter bombardment.

It’s disorienting – staggering through the snow as the world comes crashing down around you. The flashes of artillery and deafening sounds of their impact are simply the background to the screams of the men around you; some in terror, others in orders.

_ Stay in your foxholes, everyone get to cover! _

You’re scrambling around, trying to get your bearings when you hear the gargled scream again — it’s heavy with terror, ringing in your ears as you scramble in the snow and weave through the splintering trees.

Breath leaves your chest as a shell plummets to the ground, rocking your bones and sending you into a fetal position, leaving you scrambling through the snow as you try to pinpoint the source of the screams. It’s hard when the world around you is spinning in horror and you can’t even hear yourself think and the shelling doesn’t stop, not even for a second.

_ “Fucking hell, we need a medic!” _

You curse, eyes darting along the line before you spot Eugene. He points. You follow the direction.

You land into the hole in question, face first into the gory aftermath of a hit. Eugene falls in behind you, both of your hands beginning working in tandem to try to shed the bloodied layers of uniform from the screaming paratrooper. He’s riddled with shrapnel, shreds of metal and pine tree lodged deep into his chest and leg — you’re trying to breath, to remember to hide the fear.

He coughs, and blood dowses the front of your uniform. You make work at the shrapnel in his chest, plucking it with frozen fingers.

“I need that morphine, Eugene,” your voice is harsh, fingers shaking as you try and fish it from your bag. You can’t get a hold on anything with the blood on your hands. The roll of bandages slips through your fingers.

“Fucking hell.”

You scramble, hands shaking like leaves in the wind as this man watches you — fear is all you see in his eyes and his buddy is holding his face, promising him that this is a ticket home and that he’ll be able to see his momma.

_You just gotta hold on_ , he says, hold on, _and you’ll be alright._

You have to tear the packet of sulfa open with your teeth and your hands smear the metallic, crimson ink along your cheeks as you work; the tunnel vision that’s swept over you is beginning to crumble as more shouts for medics light up along the tree line.

You dump the sulfa on the wounds, pressing in despite the blood loss and the cold silence that’s fallen upon the man — just whimpers, soft and scared.

“The morphine,” you say again, “Eugene—”

The syrette is between his teeth, bloodied fingers working in the depth of the gash, trying to find the artery to pinch it — it’s hard, though, with so much blood. His fingers slide. He curses.

You’re over the soldier, a young kid named Thomas, pressing gauze into the hole in his chest — you’re yelling now, eyes pulled in panic as Eugene grits his teeth.

_ “Eugene!” _

And then, he pulls his fingers away and leans back.

You gape, trying to catch your breath and move to Thomas’ thigh, screaming the whole way. “I need morphine, I need you to get it from my bag—”

“Kid.”

You scramble in the dirt, head going light as you pant and try your best to apply pressure to both. The movements are frantic and desperate and you’re  _crying_ out of frustration.

Eugene plants a hand on your shoulder, stilling you. “Kid, stop it.”

His fingerprints dot your uniform red.

Below your hands, Thomas has gone quiet – eyes upturned to the sky, pulse still, blood slowing. He looks white like the snow and his buddy curses as you lean back on your knees and exhale.

There’s no time to mourn the loss of the man.

_** “WE NEED A MEDIC!” ** _

* * *

The air has gone silent.

Your bones ache from the cold, from the impact of the mortars, from the fear-driven running, from the falls into foxholes. Your bones ache from the sights and sounds the shelling had reaped.

Tonight was a bad night. The worst.

You muffle your sobs into your blood stained sleeves, back pressed to a tree by the CP; you and Eugene had finally collapsed after getting men to the jeeps, running back and forth and back and forth. Two men had died before they could have been loaded up for the church. Their bodies are draped in wool blankets a few feet away.

And then there was Thomas.

You choke, pressing your fingers into your hair and trying to fight the urge to throw up.

Eugene drags his cigarette beside you, watching in worry and then presses his fingers to your knee. You hiccup, sniffling and drawing your head up.

“Get back to Buck,” he says, “Sergeant Barnes is a hell when he’s worried.”

You just nod, stumbling back to the foxhole in question on wobbling knees. Your fingers are stained, and you slip back under that wool blanket rubbing them together – the boys are asleep, save for Bucky whose eyes widen in some mixed emotion at your appearance. You settle into a ball, tight and silent. Your eyes are stuck to the ground.

Quickly, Buck melts in realization; you’re covered in blood. You have a smear along your cheek, crimson pushed into your hairline. Your sleeves are past saving. You look broken. Worry creases his brow.

“Doll?” it’s a whisper.

You jump.

“Doll,” it’s soft and he moves, dragging his blanket along, “Come here.”

You’re quiet, letting him slip closer and push his arm around your shoulder – he tugs you close, doting hands moving to put your helmet by your feet. His beard scratches against your cheek and you wince at the sensation as he leans, snagging the edge of the blanket and draping it across you.

You’re still wringing your fingers. Your voice splinters.

“I can’t get the blood off.”

He’s quiet for a moment and you swallow the nagging need to cry back.

“Kid?” he presses, “Are you alright?”

“I’m not a fucking kid, Bucky.”

It’s harsh. Biting.

“I’m not a fucking kid. I’m  _not_. But – But, these other men  _are_. They’re out here, no older than my kid sister and they’re out here  _dying_.”

Your composure shatters and instantly Bucky is there to sweep it back up. He hushes you, drawing his eyes across the now awake forms of Steve and Dum Dum. One look says it all: he urges them to stay quiet, to let him handle it.

His fingers push under the blanket, securing yours in a tight grip. His thumb presses along your knuckles and you hiccup, ducking your nose into the curve of his neck to hide the evident shame in your reactionary emotion. Bucky doesn’t mind, though, and cards his fingers against the back of your head.

His beard is itchy, and you sniffle, hand moving from his hold to swipe at your tears.

“I lost a rifleman,” you finally say, “A man named Thomas.”

“You tried, though,” Bucky whispers, “You did everything you could. I know you did.”

A feeble nod. The way he says it makes you feel like he still believes in you. You lean closer, pressing yourself to his ribs. His chin rests on the crown of your head, blanket warm around you both. For the first time in days, you’re not shivering. His heartbeat thrums against your own. It’s warm and alive and you like it.

You stay like that for a while – until you start to drift off and Bucky lets you. His hold never wavers, even when you wiggle and kick your legs and press your frozen nose to the column of his neck and cling to the collar of his coat. Steve gives a weak smile at the sight.

Even through the rumble of a nightmare, even through the soft cry of fear – Bucky stays, urging you awake, whispering that everything’s alright. You meet the words with parted lips and wandering eyes. Your lashes are heavy with sleep and the look is sinful. Bucky has to still his breathing when you nod, nose brushing his jaw as you duck back to sleep.

For those few hours, all is quiet; under that blanket, there is no war. Just soft breaths and intertwined fingers and comfort amongst the winter. The closeness is intoxicating, and Bucky slips asleep dreaming of you and him together back in Brooklyn, kissing on Stevie’s fire escape. The war is over, you’re beautiful and he’s in love.

But, when morning comes, the war returns.

You pry yourselves apart with wandering hands. Words of thanks are croaked out. Cold replaces the warmth and you both feel empty. You make work at scrubbing your hands, pricking them with winter snow.

You want to forget about it all.

Bastogne is hell, and Bucky can’t wait to get the fuck out of that forest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England brings peace of mind, R&R, and a new-found tension. Buck insists it’s nothing. Everyone else knows better than that.

England. 

The country seemed worlds away but you’re  _here,_ boots landing on Ally soil and you could  _kiss the dirt._

You’re the first to peel away the curtain on the back of that U.S. Army transport, the first to breathe in the welcoming smell of  _civilian life._ Outside the truck, over the throaty croak of the diesel engine, you can hear the goings-on’s of  _life._ War hasn’t stopped life here. Even as you rumble by the debris of a bombing, there’s life. Kids play in the street. A dog barks. Girls coo at the passing Jeeps of men in their dress uniforms. 

Birmingham breathes.

Spring is here. The streets are damp with the melting snow of winter and you take it to heart – in your mind, the rattle of Bastogne sticks to your bones like a shiver. The name of that godforsaken place brings a bitter taste to your mouth. You try to let it melt, to disappear with the changing seasons. 

Things haven’t been the same since The Battle of the Bulge.

You’ve been distant, locked in your head and wrangling with the ever-pressing guilt of  _death_. Bucky knows the feeling all too well. Between the both of you, an unspoken bond has quickly cemented itself – it’s wordless and tentative and strung together on a bullet and prayer. 

(He says nothing of your breakdown post-shelling. He carries on, and so do you. He leads by example. Stomach it, deal with it, keep moving. Bucky is  _always_ moving –  _always_.)

You have his back and he has yours. 

The truck stops, jolting half the occupants awake. Against your knee, Bucky jumps – his eyes pull open fast and his hands fly to the bolt-action rifle in his lap in a natural reflex. Blue eyes go a bit wild, sleep pulling a deep inhale as he stretches and realizes…  _oh._

You’re smiling down at him, face frozen in a moment of sheer  _happiness_ as from a window up above the makeshift HQ Phillips has been billeted in, you hear the even-keeled crooning of big band swing. 

“Hear that?”  


“I’ve never been happier to hear Glenn Miller in my damn life,” says Dum Dum as Bucky swallows down his dreamy look.   


He moves, always moving, fast.

You laugh – for the first time in weeks – and follow Buck out the back of the transport. He offers a hand. You snag it, leap and land. His hold lingers – and as the rest of the Howling Commandos pour from the truck, you quirk a brow.

“Tryna dance, soldier?”  


“Keep smilin’ like that an’ I might have’ta.”  


There’s a solemnity that sticks to his words; you can hear it. It’s as if he’s  _glad_ to see you back in the sunlight again. 

You shrug. “Maybe I’m just lookin’ forward to a hot bath.”

And  _were you ever._

The home Phillips was billeted in was  _huge –_ some old money mansion donated to the war effort by a RAF pilot’s family. You try not to gawk as Peggy meets you at the door and leads the unit through the HQ. 

In close quarters, you’re struck with the sudden realization that the men by your side of  _heroes._ Eyes follow as Dum Dum, Steve and Buck lead the unit through the winding halls. Conversation is forgone for staring on your part – this place is the sort of thing you’d read about in  _Pride and Prejudice._

Silently, you wonder what the bathroom situation was like. Soaps! Toilet paper! Running  _fucking_ water.

“ _Sir_.”

You snap to attention like the rest of the men.

Phillips is a sight for sore eyes. His debrief is short and you’d be lying if you said you were listening. Instead, you were trained on the well-put-together girl by the Colonel’s side. Her stockings don’t even have a run in them. 

On the other hand,  _you_  haven’t showered in weeks. Under your white head-scarf, your hair is wound into manageable braids in an attempt to hide the grease. 

You are anything but  _pretty,_ anything but pink rouge and red lips and tightly wound curls. 

From the corner of your eye, you catch Buck eyeing the assistant with his usual amount of distrust and disdain and that does a little to quell your jealousy – but when Peggy catches you post-debrief with an armful of white cotton, you remember how much you’d never really  _liked_ your nursing uniform anyways.

“The boys are billeted across the way,” she says, “But, I’ve arranged for you to stay in my room for a night…”  


You blink. Peggy’s lips quirk. 

“There’s a master bath.”  


Bucky notes the extra pep in your step. He lights a Lucky Strike and pulls a long drag on the steps of the Birmingham home. 

“Don’t drown,” he calls at you as you cross the street, headed to drag your medical bag from the transport.  


“It’d be a good death,” you laugh, shouldering him on your way in, “A  _great_ death.”

* * *

You miss dinner that night. 

Bucky bites back worry and shovels the cold pasta back with a dry roll – Pinky notes the anxiety in the sniper’s shoulders. Waving his dinner roll, the Englishman chirps:

“Don’t worry, Buck, she’s probably soaking it up –”  


Beside him, Happy faux-reclines and drops two beer caps onto his eyes. He hums a tune, bringing a raucous wave of laughter across the back of their faithful truck. Buck fights a grin, forking his ration-born dinner from its tin. Next to him, Steve offers a smile. 

“She’s earned it.”  


“Yea, yea,” Bucky waves a hand, dropping his fork into his mouth and handing off the rest of his dinner Steve’s way. Old habit, “I’m gunna go make sure she ain’t dead yet.”  


A series of wolf-whistles follow him.

Buck shoots them all a look. “Cut the shit.”

“Hey! Take the wine –”  


How in the ever-loving  _fuck_ Jim managed to snag a whole bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon   escapes Bucky; he lingers, bent over as he steps over Falsworth who’s whole chest is shaking with laughter from his spot on the floor. The sniper pulls a look, deciding he’s not going to fucking ask.

He takes the bottle and the group jeers.

“Don’t get any funny ideas,” Bucky says sternly to the Commandos as he opens the flab of the Jeep and hops out, “Alright?”  


“None.”  


“S’not romantic at all, Sarge.”  


“Not at all.”

“A candlelit bath and wine…”  


“Naw.”  


Steve shrugs when Bucky spares him a pleading look. “I’m not gettin’ into it, okay?”

“– Stevie, c’mon –”  


“Go check on your girl,” the blonde chirps, “She needs a lifeguard.”  


Whistles and laughter follow Buck as he rolls his eyes and shuts the flap of the transport. The wine bottle in his hands feels heavy as he makes his way through the HQ quickly. Downstairs is a hub of Officers and Buck keeps his head down, cigarette balanced in the corner of his mouth. 

Before he can knock on the door Peggy had mentioned was yours – he pauses. The slow drone of a crooner’s lullaby is playing from inside. He laughs, then, ducking his head and tugging his unlit cigarette to tuck it behind his ear. 

Knuckles rap quick on the mahogany.

When the door opens, the girl on the other-side of the door takes his breath away.

Your hair is swept into a tight knot, adorned with a soft cotton towel. The robe around your shoulders is plush. Delicate fingers push at your cheeks – you’re glowing from the steam of the bath, smelling like roses and lavender. You look like something out of a magazine…  _or a dream._

Buck tries to find words, but suddenly he’s swallowed a bundle of love-sick cotton.

Your smile breaks his stupor.

He raises the wine bottle in a harsh grip. “Courtesy of Jim Morita.”

You laugh. “How in the hell –”

“No idea,” Buck says, offering it, “But, it’s all yours.”  


You take the bottle. You eye it, and then him. “… Why don’t you stay and help?”

In that moment, Buck doesn’t know how to say no.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky make a promise to one another in the glow of a bottle of red wine.

It’s quiet.

Too fucking quiet.

For  _weeks,_ you’d fallen asleep to the sound of mortar fire and dogfights. You’d slept in homes gutted by the Nazi occupation, slept under the open stars and slept through the painful ache of frost-bite. You’d  _learned_ to push it all away – like you’d learned to sleep through the blaring horns and police sirens of your third floor Queens home. 

Even with the sleepy buzz of wine, you can’t  _fucking sleep._

Buck shifts, ankles crossed on the vanity. His chair teeters back.

You sigh.

He drops his boots to the floor and sits up. 

His cheeks are rosier than usual, eyes half-lidded with a sort of annoyance that’s usually saved for Pinky or Jim during recon – it’s directed at the window, now, to the quiet streets of Birmingham. 

“It’s quiet.”  


You don’t open your eyes. “Too quiet.”

“Fuckin’ silent.”  


“What the hell is wrong with us?” you ask finally, pulling yourself up and eyeing the empty wine bottle on the night-stand, “We’re safe. We’re warm and we have good grub in our bellies and we had  _wine._ Wine.”

Buck’s elbows hit his knees. You’re beautiful, hair spilling over your shoulders in damp tendrils. Your pout, to anyone else, would be terrifying, he reasons. Your reputation proceeds you; that honorable deed medal you’d lost in a bet back in France carries weight around a place like this. It’s no wonder they’ve showered you in a lavish little room like this. Despite Peggy’s insistence, Buck is half sure they would have given you a room down the hall anyways.

“The war isn’t over.”  


You chew your lip, dropping back down to the pillows. “So,  _what_ , once the war is over, we’ll sleep?”

He rubs a hand across his face. “If we’re not dead.”

“Don’t joke.”  


“M’not,” he bites, “I’m bein’ honest. Real fuckin’ honest.”  


You roll, propping yourself up on your elbow and eyeing him. Blue eyes are glued to your own, struck with a sort of fear you can  _feel_ – it’s palpable and thick and  _brutally honest._

Buck has never been easy to read. He’s as distant and distrusting as they come – it’s born out of a need to protect himself, to protect his friends. Like the boxer he is, he’s always got a guard up. 

Right now, though, you could land a right hook and he’d never see it coming. He drops his gaze and fiddles with an unlit cigarette.

“Neither of us is gunna die.”  


Outside, a dog howls.

You say it with the sort of conviction that could save someone’s soul. A pure promise. Bucky watches as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and sit up, brows knotted in a sort of worry that reminds him of the nuns back in school.

He’s ten the first time they sit him down – all while his nose runs with blood and his eye is turning purple and he  _refuses_ to cry. With voices soft, Sister Genevieve reminds him:

“ _There’s no good in starting fights, James. Hurting others is not the way of the Lord.”_  


You look like a holy relic. Poised and perfect and  _beautiful._ Bucky curses.

Under his fatigues, his cross burns a hole in his chest.

“Yeah?” he snorts, knee bouncing as he twiddles the cigarette over his knuckles, “You have a chat with th’ big man upstairs, huh?”  


Your face twists like you’ve tasted something bitter. You can’t remember the last time you’d _willingly_ thought of God – not since Bastogne, not since your prayers were drowned out by the bombings every single night. You’d lost faith then, lost sight of an end, lost sight of a gilded altar on high. 

You wonder what your mother would think. 

“I won’t let you die,” you say after a moment, blinking at the ceiling, “It’s my job.”  


Buck’s eyes stick to the curve of your throat. He swallows. “… Yea, well, I don’t plan on letting you die either.”

“Good,” you say, standing and offering a hand, “Then it’s a deal. We don’t die.”  


“Not until the war is over.”  


“And then we can sleep.”  


You shake on it, eyes locked.

_ Can’t break a promise. _


End file.
